


Bad-Switch

by LadyMaverick



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Betaed, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode AU: s02e13 Mizumono, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fighting, Hannibal is a Pissy Cannibae, Improper Use of Potato Peelers, KinkTerror2019, M/M, Someone Help Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Needs a Hug, Will Graham is So Done, blood/gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 11:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20852444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMaverick/pseuds/LadyMaverick
Summary: It was bound to come to this, in the end. Too many wounds, too many betrayals.Perhaps Will Graham's best kept secret can surprise even Hannibal. The upper hand is so hard won, after all, and skin is only so deep...





	Bad-Switch

**Author's Note:**

> So, KinkTerror2019 looks very promising so far! This has been beta'd by the amazing StargateNerd (Long May They Reign!), kick back, have fun, and keep in mind, this is day one. There will be much more coming from the KinkMeme... *winks*

** BAD-SWITCH **

Beta: StargateNerd (<3)

The biggest and by far the cruellest fuck-up the universe had ever bestowed upon Hannibal Lecter was always fated to be delivered lovingly by Will. It was preordained, written in the Dead Sea scrolls of circumstance, every choice and consequence building up and up and up, until the only way to go was  _ down _ . They stood opposite each other, close enough that any outsider looking in would consider them far more than friends, even to the untrained eye. Hannibal allowed himself the small comfort of reaching out to touch Will’s face. His thumb carefully swept away raindrops, nails coming perilously close to his eyeball as they brushed against his rosy cheek, and he knew his own expression matched Will’s, both with unshed tears, and both knowing what was about to happen and appreciating the inevitability of it all. These sorts of games, he recalled bitterly in hindsight, relied heavily upon willpower and control. Whoever blinked first would fall first and even with the meat of his thumb so close to Will’s eyeball that a single push would leave him very much blind, Will. Did. Not. Blink. He would be fascinated if he didn’t feel so… what exactly? Quantifying his thoughts and emotions felt impossible, much better to  _ show _ him in the end.

  


The linoleum knife in his hand, so small and light and so fucking  _ efficient _ for cutting, for  _ gutting _ , moved like liquid lead as he struck. Only, and this was the absolute kicker he knew, even with Will’s eyes filled to overflowing with tears, his hands quivering as they couldn’t quite let go from clinging to his ruined shirt soaked with Jack’s lifeblood, Hannibal’s aim  _ missed its mark _ .

  


Because,  _ you foolish creature _ , he snarled to himself quietly. Because Will Graham  _ could fight  _ and the universe was a greater and duller place for Hannibal never having had the opportunity to see and witness first hand. He had been so utterly preoccupied in congratulating himself and then mourning his relationship with the man standing in front of him, he had completely and utterly skimmed over this vital piece of information. Will Graham could fight. And now his inability to reconcile the Will Graham of before, so clammy and unsure, so weak and frail and prone to suggestion, with the Will Graham that stood before him now, sorrowful yet confident, fire swirling in a teacup,  _ infuriated _ him.

  


He saw it a second too late, the subtle twist of the man’s stomach as he sidestepped the jab of the blade, his eyes questioning but not wide, his hands no longer shaking as he threw, actually  _ threw  _ Hannibal to one side. He landed heavily against the fridge, the whole appliance rocking back for a moment on its feet, the impact yanking his breath away in a daze. As the side of his head collided with the door, he heard the rattle of milk bottles inside, and for one mad moment, he lamented the fact that he would be leaving perishables to waste. Ah well.  _ No use crying over spilt milk _ . 

  


Behind him, Will had shed his shirt as easily as a second skin, exposing all the softer parts of him to the thirst of Hannibal’s blade. The shirt hit the cold tile of the floor with a resonating splat, finality and acceptance that this conflict was indeed about to happen, and he was ready to face it, come what may. Hannibal supposed, somewhat hysterically, that he  _ had _ shed his skin in a way, the baggy, soaked lumberjackesque material hiding away vulnerable flesh and the two standard issue handguns holstered beneath. The rain had chilled his skin to a sickly white, but where the leather straps held a gun to each rib closely on either side the flesh rippled a healthy pink. It was clever, really. Even if Hannibal managed to grab him by the straps, they were flush against Will’s skin, and he would be liable to get himself caught and expose himself to retaliation. So, he had come to end this after all.  _ And with guns? I thought I taught you better, Will. Or do you feel we lack… intimacy? _

  


Will stood straight and calmly slid his hands deep into his jean pockets as Hannibal looked him over, head cocked. Even knowing Hannibal’s intent, he stood with his feet just far apart enough for his stance to be solid, feet planted. Relaxed. He simply couldn’t understand it as he heaved himself upright, willing himself into a steadiness matching Will’s, and was amazed when he was given plenty of time to do so, grace and courtesy so rare amongst killers and their prey. Will’s face still shone bright with tears as they spilled over, glistening tracks running down his face. He tucked his chin slightly, making his throat less of a target, resolve solidified. Hannibal could have laughed at the stupidity of it all.  _ Just take your hands out of your pockets and come at me you stupid boy. _

  


He couldn’t quite bring himself to vocalise his incredulity, his shoulders hunched as his grip around the knife tightened in increments as the seconds ticked on. It couldn’t last. Hannibal launched himself forwards with betrayal burning acid in his lungs, for it was one thing for Jack Crawful to turn up, bravery shooting out of his ass in righteous spades and unarmed like the fucking idiot he truly was, but it was quite another for Will to dare stand and take him head on, willingly  _ unarmed, _ and  _ stable, and with his hands in his pockets.  _ Hannibal roared as he felt his shoulder connect with Will’s stomach, only to find himself spun around with Will’s hand planted firmly on the back of his head. Effortlessly, he found himself propelled back into the fridge once again, the room still spinning.

  


This time, he couldn’t stop himself as he collided with it face first, and he felt the telltale crunch of bone as his nose gushed red. He whipped around on his heels, eyes blazing with fury as Will calmly put his hand back in his pocket, and for one mad moment, Hannibal thought he saw greyish-black creeping of antlers behind the man, very much the same as Will had described to him before during those times he were far less lucid. Was this what Tobias Budge had encountered an age ago when he had found himself face to face with Will? With a man so unstable a breeze may well have blown him over? Bitterness crept over him, more evidence making itself known to him as Will watched him with poorly veiled sorrow. Before, he had assumed Budge had fled as he knew he was running out of time with the FBI surely hot on his heels, and he had rushed to confront Hannibal in his own office as a final act of revenge against the man he had made himself vulnerable to. Now? Now he wasn’t so sure, and the thought bloomed bitter in his mouth.

  


It had been many years since his mind actively worked against him, and he was decidedly having none of it. He grabbed another knife from the magnetic rack on the wall, this one a good six inches long and gleaming as he inched his way towards his adversary, step by step, giving Will equally ample time to step back out of courtesy he didn’t quite genuinely feel. Even if Budge had fled Will simply because he  _ couldn’t _ best him, he was an amateur and even Will’s addled brain made him a potential threat better left for future confrontation, should he survive. In the end, he did  _ not _ .

  


“ We don’t have to do this.” Will said, voice splintering as it shook. The vulnerability in his words starkly contrasted against the rest of him with his almost high and mighty confidence, and Hannibal laughed openly, mocking as Will almost inaudibly hissed: “You were supposed to  _ leave _ .”

  


“ We don’t have to do anything we don’t feel the need to, William. Friends are  _ always _ welcome in my kitchen.”

  


With every step Hannibal took forwards, he could see Will’s muscles echo a tremor in response, urging him into action against the predator that circled him. The kitchen was warm enough to dispel the chill from outside, but the hairs on his arms still stood up as the water pooled around him, refracting a broken image of a broken man for them both to see. He paused a moment to stare dumbly, for Will wasn’t even looking at him anymore. Instead, he stood stock still, staring at the giant smear of red across the floor that shot off at an angle towards the pantry. Hannibal took his chance. He moved forwards with purposeful strides, having learned that rushing him in the end was a poor tactic, for at some point in all his liquid instability, Will had learned to move as though he were water. He slashed forwards with his cleaver, and blinked incredulously as Will simply turned his body to the side to avoid it, eyes still firmly locked on the bloodstain instead of  _ him _ .

  


“Hannibal… Where is Jack?”

  


Hannibal huffed in amusement as he brought the linoleum knife up harshly to the side, only for his wrist to be immediately and seemingly effortlessly blocked by a solid elbow. He lurched forwards with his bloodied face, happy to take his pound of flesh more traditionally, but instead found himself sat on the floor with a pounding head as Will’s skull connected solidly with his cheekbone.

  


“Alana asked… very much the… same thing,” he wheezed, scrambling away to give himself more space. He tongued the back of his teeth carefully, scowling when one wobbled slightly to the touch. “You’re all suddenly… so interested in the contents of my larder. Perhaps... you’ll allow me to show you myself?”

  


The words came out oozing confidence, very much the same as he knew they always had, but the spluttering of the syllables lacked his usual finesse and left the illusion wanting. Under his skin, his blood boiled and the monster in him cried out for retribution, for killing an enemy was easy, killing a friend, an inconvenience. Killing a lover…

  


He shook his head away from such thoughts, for within the brackets of his manipulations, bookended on one side by skill and on the other resolve, he had never quite managed to work out how to seduce Will Graham. Had he wanted to? He brought himself to his feet, body swaying from the concussion he was sure to have, and acknowledged he still did. Fine line between love and hate, indeed.

  


But Will? As he stood there, half dressed to make him less likely to fall into a clumsy grapple, even with a gun holstered safely on either side of his ribs, he made no movement to fight back beyond the perfect mirroring of what was thrown at him. His movements were so lax they appeared at first to be entirely uncoordinated, in the same way a dancer may feint a pivot to make the next spin that much more beautiful. Hannibal had eaten many a brave police officer in his time, and knew the finely tuned finesse presented before him stretched far beyond standard issue. Wherever had he found the time to learn to dance so well? After his imprisonment? Or… Or indeed before? Perhaps the Will Graham presented to him then and there, lightly swaying on his feet to steady himself against the earthquake he knew was about to come, had always been there, suffocated by encephalitis and crushing second-hand emotion?

  


Hannibal’s teeth ached – even at their roaring, inevitable end, he was still just as untouchable as when he had turned up for his regular 7PM appointment after being released from Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Hannibal knew he was lost. He knew it. The black, bubbling bile in his stomach demanded the void be filled with the flesh of the traitorous, even as said flesh heaved silent sorrow. Jack Crawford could be easily forgiven his trespasses, for wasn’t it within the wild dog’s nature to snap at the fingers who fed it? But Will Graham, with all his fluid empathy, he had the ability to become whatever he so desired, and what he desired made Hannibal bite his own tongue bloody in rage.

  


“ Yeah...” Will trailed off, finally taking his hands out of his pockets. For a moment, Hannibal thought he would abandon himself further and pull free his arms, but even through the mist of his blood haze, he was filled with pride to see Will instead reach over to his cutlery draw to dig around in it for a minute or so. Occasionally, he made a humming noise in thought, entirely unbothered that Hannibal may charge him again while his attention was diverted, though he did no such thing. After what felt like forever, just as the tension threatened to snap like so many elastic bands, Will finally pulled free two items, and Hannibal felt his breath stutter. In one hand, he held the awl he often used for poking holes in bone to allow the marrow to diffuse, and in the other a… potato peeler?

  


“Will.”

  


“Yes?”

  


“If you don’t fight me seriously, as though your life depended on it, you will die here.”

  


Hannibal’s voice had lost all its heat, and instead echoed against the walls flatly as though he were commenting on the weather.  _ Tonight, a high chance of rain. _ Will’s lips trembled in devastated amusement, half sorrow, half joy. “Yeah. Yeah.”

  


“Then… Shall we begin seriously?”

  


Hannibal planted all his weight on the balls of his feet and launched forwards, far more recklessly than he knew was wise. With such momentum came the substantial task of controlling one’s movements, and as he threw himself forwards, Will mirrored the move and propelled himself forward too. There wasn’t much space to manoeuvre – at the last second, Will ducked under Hannibal’s arm, twisting his torso as he went, and Hannibal felt blinding, split -second pain, over and over again as he spun on the spot and threw himself into a lunge once again. The handle of Will’s awl connected solidly with the flat of his cleaver, sending it skidding to the side as it was knocked entirely free of Hannibal’s grip. It shrieked against the tile as it span, like shards of glass ground together as Will moved again, peeler blades catching the linoleum knife mid-swipe. Another casual flick of the wrist, and that too went flying across the room, leaving Hannibal entirely disarmed and  _ furious _ . Another barrage of shooting pain, this time down his arm, and Hannibal scrambled away once more to retrieve his linoleum knife, not quite understanding why Will  _ let _ him.

  


Will watched with sad resignation as Hannibal skidded away, the pointed tip of his awl bloody and gleaming. He brought it to his lips, content to breathe in the copper sharp scent of blood as he flexed his shoulders. His tongue then darted out to taste, his brows furrowed in deep thought as Hannibal brought himself to stand again, his elbow leaning heavily against the worktop.

  


“You taste frightened, Hannibal. What’s to be done about that?”

  


Hannibal huffed, flicking a strand of sweaty hair out of his eyes, retaliation on the tip of his tongue, unguarded. “What was it you once said about low hanging fruit?”

  


The side of his ribs and the whole upper section of his right arm ached as though held too close to a flame, and he frowned, ripping his shirt free to assess the damage. Somehow, some way, in the seconds that had passed between them where they were within striking distance of one another, Will had hit him at least ten times with the awl. He spread the skin over his ribs gingerly with his fingertips to expose the half dozen oozing holes that had been left behind. He prodded gently, frown deepening. The wounds would be difficult to heal, would hurt like all hell, and would leave raised bumps of scar tissue in their wake, but other than that…

  


“These are entirely superficial. Your hits have not penetrated any deeper than the skin-”

  


“Yeah,” Will cut him off, stretching. “I know.”

  


Hannibal continued on as though he hadn’t noticed the interruption as his examination moved to his arm. The wounds there were deeper, and he could spy at least a dozen more puncture wounds if he strained his neck. Amongst them, dotted with far more ordered frequency to be anything close to random, slivers of diamond-shaped skin had been taken away in neat little strips with the peeler. He caught his own reflection cast back at him in the door of the fridge and blinked, his world spinning. Looking back at him was a man half cast in glowing red from the shoulder down to his hips, as though he had been suspended above a vat of bubbling pigment and dipped carefully in halfway. The wounds to his arm bled awfully, an entire cascade of red staining everything down to his fingertips, dripping with a steady  _ tap tap tap _ to join the rainwater on the floor. “You… know?”

  


“Yes.”

  


Hannibal heaved, forcing himself to sway as steadily as he could manage on two feet. Five seconds in total between them, and Will had already disabled one arm in the least damaging way he was able, for Hannibal knew he wouldn’t be able to grip the handles of any of his chrome knives without them slipping from his bloodied grip. It wouldn’t matter how often he wiped the blood away, either. The mini lattice of wounds spreading down his arm ensured a steady supply of blood, and would continue to do so until bandaged. In all his time of knowing him, Hannibal wondered where he had hidden this ridiculous aspect of himself, for not even  _ he _ boasted the control to be able to do so much with so  _ little  _ in the heat of a fight. That revelation stung almost as much as the patchwork of punctures and slices did.

  


Will spun the awl idly between his fingers, and Hannibal reeled at knowing there wasn’t a scratch on him.  _ Not. A. Single. Scratch _ . “Do we need to continue at this point Hannibal? Really?”

  


Hannibal swallowed as he considered his options, throat dry for all the liquid his body readily hemorrhaged in the wake of Will Graham’s wrath.

  


“You would take my life?” he asked, unable to stop the bubble of emotion that came with the question.

  


“Your life? No.”

  


Hannibal could almost give him credit. He at least sounded sincere. “My freedom then? You would deny me that?”

  


Will closed his eyes, head bowed. In the silent moments that passed, the shroud covering him vanished bit by bit, until he wasn’t quite sure how he had been so blind as to miss what had been in front of him the whole time. His foot skidded on his own blood as he steadied himself with an uneasy step forwards, and he watched as the tension bled away from Will’s muscles just as his own fled with weakness. How could he have been so blind. He had been so utterly engrossed with the gloriousness of Will’s mental aspects, he had entirely missed the physical. The man standing in front of him had once escaped custody by disarming _three _orderlies in such a fashion that they could readily return to work the next day with minimal psychological damage. Hannibal himself had sent Tier to his doorstep with the scent of the hunt fresh in his nose and was made even bloodier for it as Will literally tore apart his construct of ancient bone and polished iron. Blood and bolts, the static electricity of life in its most primal form. It hadn’t made a _shred_ _of difference_ against Will’s fists. The man had come away almost entirely unscathed, the only wounds being the physical manifestation of his wrath, and even as they had been scrubbed, cleaned and bandaged, he hadn’t flinched. _Not a mark on him, against a creature built to tear and shred and devour._

  


There was nothing else for it. In the same way Budge had, Hannibal came to his conclusion with icy certainty. This trial was one he could not hope to pass. Not in any orthodox way, anyway.

  


“Abigail, you can come out now. Come and greet your father.”

  


Will spun on the spot as Abigail peeked shyly around the doorframe, her pale cheeks stained with just as many tears as Will had already shed. It was the only distraction Hannibal needed in the end. Lurching forwards as Will gawped, he pressed his bloodied chest to Will’s back and embraced him, allowing himself the comfort of pushing his face into the side of his neck to breathe deeply of him one last time before oblivion. The linoleum blade glinted in his shaking hand as he plunged it into Will’s stomach, the bile in his own rolling up his throat as if to suffocate him as he felt the man’s whole body judder in his arms. He allowed the illusion of the embrace only a moment longer before he let Will collapse to the ground with a burbling splat, granting himself only a moment of regret as he held his hand out to Abigail. Perhaps, Will would forgive him in turn one day. Once he had gathered up his guts, at any rate.

  


“A-A-Abigail!”

  


Bathing him in a bloody baptism only felt right – anointed with the blood of one’s blood, perhaps the Will Graham that rose to follow him across the seas as he undoubtedly would, would think twice about hesitating in future. Abigail slumped at Will’s feet as Hannibal hobbled away, every fibre of his soul screeching at him to return and gather the two of them up into his arms once again. A fairytale for another time, to be sure.

  


-

  


“We watched the tape back, Hannibal. Dolarhyde picked Will up and threw him into the elevator. If you ever had any shred of genuine emotion towards the man, you would tell us where to find him, or next time he’ll finish the job.”

  


Hannibal closed his eyes, a serene smile playing across his lips as he stood with his hands clasped lightly behind his back. Even with a giant sheet of unbreakable glass cutting him off from the rest of the world, he still took great comfort in teasing Alana’s rage out into the open, and it amused him to know it reared its ugly head far more easily since his incarceration.

  


“And what of Dolarhyde?”

  


“We couldn’t see-”

  


“Ah.” Hannibal said, lips parting to reveal white, glistening teeth. It was rare he allowed himself the discourtesy of an interruption, but the honey sweet taste of opportunity so infrequently presented had him salivating at the bit. “But Will Graham lives, does he not?”

  


Alana looked at him with clenched fists and furrowed brows, and he sorely hoped those gleaming, blood-red nails were cutting into the meat of her hands. “Yes. He escaped.”

  


“Escaped. Quite. That will be all Alana.”

  


Huffing at the dismissal, she made to leave, but in the end couldn’t quite resist getting in the last word. “He will be visiting you soon.”

  


Hannibal turned his back on her a wide, genuine smile on his face. Francis Dolarhyde – a human monster, giant in stature and built of muscle and radiance, and Will Graham walked away not only  _ alive _ , but mostly  _ unscathed _ . It had taken him years to see that Will Graham could stand on his own two feet, a maelstrom of force humming within his fists. The rest of the world would have to see on its own, and he certainly wasn’t going to spoil it for them.

  
  
  



End file.
